Jason Robert Brown

LUCILLE
You don’t know this man.
You don’t know a thing.
You come here with these horrifying stories,
These contemptible conceits,
And you think you understand how a man’s heart beats
And you don’t know a thing.

You don’t know this man.
You don’t even try.
When a man writes his mother every Sunday,
Pays his bills before they’re due,
Works so hard to feed his family –
There’s your murderer for you –
And you stand here spitting words
That you know aren’t true,

Then you don’t know this man.
I don’t think you could.
You don’t have the right to know
A man that wise and good –
He is a decent man!
He is an honest man!
And you don’t know.
And you never will.
Not from me, not from anyone who knows him –
Not a morsel, not a crumb, not a clue.
I have nothing more to say to you.